


Overjoyed & Paranoid

by RobinsonsWereHere



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Lassie is a Protective Bro, close talking (u know what I mean), everyone want jUsTiCe, maddie spencer will be important later i swear, the timeline is kinda messed up, there is no universe in which shawn doesn't immediately flirt with jules upon meeting her, they don't trust each other at first but they don't exactly have a choice, they're Very Young and don't make great decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinsonsWereHere/pseuds/RobinsonsWereHere
Summary: The year is 1925, and the Roaring 20s are in full swing. It is not a good time to be a cop. Conversely, business is booming for Private Eyes all over Santa Barbara. Carlton Lassiter, a veteran of WWI and one of very few honest detectives left in the SBPD, prefers to work alone, but Juliet O'Hara isn't going to give him a choice. However, it's going to take more than two people to right the wrongs of an entire city. Enter Psych Investigators.Teaming up with a few PIs with questionable morals and even less common sense might be a horrible idea, but it's the only one they've got.





	1. Something Useful

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't look too closely at the timeline- by the time I realized it didn't quite match, I'd already planned a lot out. It's not that important to the story, so. Enjoy!

Dozens of SBPD employees fill the bullpen, all tired and ready to go home. It is four ‘til five on a Friday, and most officers have been here since eight or nine in the morning. Sitting at his paper-strewn desk illuminated only by an old, flickering lamp, Carlton Lassiter groans and rubs a hand over his neck. He’s getting nowhere on this case, but he’s tempted to leave anyway and come back to it on Monday. It’s not like his boss will be displeased if it doesn’t get done; Lassiter knows for a fact that a portion of the money from these bootleggers goes straight into Chief Mason’s pockets. As he’s grumbling to himself for the umpteenth time that day about the miserable state of department affairs, an energetic whirlwind by the name of Juliet O’Hara flops into the chair across from him, grinning impishly as she holds up a thin file. “I found something useful,” she tells him, keeping her voice low.

“Useful how?” Lassiter asks suspiciously. 

“Psych Private Investigators,” his partner answers. “Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster. They’ve immobilized at least three separate bootlegging operations and apparently, even dealt some serious damage to a gang or two. I think we should pay them a visit.”

“Why?”

“ _Because,_ ” Juliet responds, huffing impatiently, “We need their help. What we’ve been trying to do here, it’s good, but it’s not enough. It’s not just gangs but ninety percent of a police department, all rotten to the core. I’m not saying we have to handcuff ourselves to them permanently, I just feel like it’s worth checking out.”

“Alright,” Carlton concedes. “How late are they open?”

“Until seven.”

They stand, neaten their respective desks, and don coats and hats in preparation for the chill of the night. As the partners head out the door, Lassiter thinks of something. “What’s with the name? Psych?”

“Apparently, they’re so good at solving cases with little to no evidence that some people think they’re psychic. I guess they took that and ran with it.”

Lassiter sighs. “This’ll be fun.”

/////////////

_Several Months Earlier_

_Lassiter curses quietly to himself as he leaves an extremely unsuccessful meeting with the chief and two other detectives._ Maybe I should’ve checked to see if this place was full of dirty cops _before_ I reported the smugglers, _he thinks to himself. Rounding the corner, the detective nearly crashes into a young woman carrying a large armful of folders. Never one to speak first, he stops for a second to take her in, blinking. She’s much shorter than him, even in heels, and she’s wearing most of a suit, though her jacket has been discarded and her sleeves rolled up. Her blonde hair is cut in a bob- it’s the new fashion, apparently- and the curls are held in place by several messily arranged hairpins. All in all, she looks a bit disheveled._

_“Did you just come back from overseas?” She aks bluntly._

_Lassiter’s brow furrows at the question. “Not exactly,” he responds. “I spent a couple of moths helping out my family in New York. Why?”_

_“Sorry. That was a personal question, and I haven’t even introduced myself! Detective Juliet O’Hara. I just wanted to know if you’re new here, is all,” she explains rapidly._

_“Oh. Well, I was a detective here before the war, and then I came back, and everyone I knew was either dead or working for a mafia. So I guess you could say I’m still getting used to things.”_

_“Well then, Detective-” She stops, and after a second, he realizes she’s waiting for a name._

_“Lassiter. Carlton Lassiter.”_

_“Well, Detective Lassiter, I have good news.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“I am neither dead nor corrupt, and the Evans case you’re trying to look into? I think I’ve got a lead on that.” She bounds away, beckoning for him to follow. After a short debate, Carlton decides he’s got nothing left to lose, so he does._

_It’s the best decision he’s ever made._

////////////////////

Juliet and Lassiter stand underneath the golden glow of a streetlamp, craning their necks to look up at the building in front of them.

“Is this the place?” Lassiter queries.

Juliet compares the logo on the business card on her hand to the one she can just barely see on a window several stories above her. “Psych,” she says. “Spencer and Guster. Yep, this is it.”

“If you say so,” her partner responds doubtfully. They enter the building and take a rattling elevator to the fifth floor. Upon leaving the cramped metal container, they immediately spot the logo, painted in bright green letters on a frosted glass window. Juliet takes the lead, her heels echoing loudly in the empty hallway as she approaches the door. She knocks twice and the door is opened by a smiling, dark-skinned man.

“How can I help you?” He asks. Behind him, another man swings his feet off the desk and paces quickly to the door.

“Shawn Spencer, Psychic Extraordinaire,” he interrupts. He takes Juliet’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it; caught off guard, she doesn’t resist. “How may we be of service, miss…”

“It’s Detective, actually,” Juliet corrects, taking her hand back. “I’m Detective Juliet O’Hara, and this is my partner, Detective Carlton Lassiter.”

“Cops?” The first man, who must be Guster, asks. 

“Yep. We’re the good guys,” Lassiter responds flatly.

“That makes me feel so much better,” Guster mutters.

“Are you actually psychic?” Juliet asks skeptically as she steps over the threshold.

“No, but it piques your interest, doesn’t it?” Spencer answers with a smile.

“That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Guster interjects, “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ve had… unpleasant encounters with the SBPD in the past. What do you mean when you say you’re the good guys?” Juliet opens her mouth but hesitates, trying to figure out how to phrase it delicately. Lassiter does not.

“Most of the department is sitting comfortably in the pocket of one gang or another. There are bootleggers who walk freely through our station and do business with our personnel. The SBPD is corrupt in all meanings of the word- it’s filthier than a New York ghetto. You’ve only got our word that we’re not in on it too, and frankly, I wouldn’t blame you if you told us to get the hell out of your office. But if you’re willing…” Lassiter takes a breath. “We could use your help.”

Juliet gapes at her partner in shock. They’re supposed to be politely convincing these guys to help them, not getting themselves thrown out! What is he _doing?_ Somehow, Shawn Spencer seems unfazed. “I like you, Lassie,” he says with a laugh. “I think we’re going to be friends.”

Lassiter looks doubtful.

“Shawn, can I have a word?” Guster demands, pulling his friend roughly into a far corner, where they have a loudly whispered argument for several minutes. Juliet and Carlton exchange glances, then Lassiter flops into an old armchair while she pulls out a compact and attempts to tame her unruly curls. Eventually the investigators return, Spencer wearing a triumphant grin and Guster a frown of disapproval.

“We’ll help you,” Guster says seriously. “But we’re starting with a ‘trial run’. You’ll pay us in full and we’ll help with only low-profile cases, and only one at a time.”

“Gus, don’t be a hayrunner,” Spencer says.

“It’s hay _burner,_ Shawn,” Guster says irritably.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn retorts. “What Gus is trying to say is, we’ll help you out once or twice. If, by the end of the month, we’re all still alive and you haven’t turned us over to any gangs or undesirable persons, we can meet back up, maybe work some harder stuff. Who knows? You might be surprised by what we bring to the table,” he finishes, with a wink and a smile in Juliet’s direction. She surprises herself by smiling back. 

Juliet and Carlton exchange glances; he raises an eyebrow, she purses her lips and shrugs. “We’ll see you at noon tomorrow,” the smaller detective announces decisively. 

_“Tomorrow?”_ her partner exclaims, giving her an incredulous look.

“Yeah, we’re closed on Saturdays,” Shawn says, frowning a bit as he leans against his desk.

Juliet raises an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me you’d rather take a day off than bring even the smallest amount of justice back to Santa Barbara?”

“Yes,” come all three voices at once.

“We’d still pay you your usual rate,” she continues. Even if their morals are questionable, they’re men. Surely the promise of good money will sway them. Sure enough, Shawn and Gus turn to each other, repeating their overenthusiastic whispering from earlier.

“O’Hara, _we_ won’t be getting paid,” Lassiter hisses in her ear. She smacks him lightly. “I’m just _saying,_ ” he defends.

“It won’t hurt you to do a few hours of work _one day_ on something that could be hugely beneficial without getting paid,” she scolds.

“Alright, fine. But you’re paying them, and for the record, I think ‘hugely beneficial’ is a stretch.”

“Acceptable,” she agrees. 

Spencer and Guster turn back to face them, and Spencer holds out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says. Juliet shakes his hand with a feeling that she’s going to be seeing a lot more of that confident smirk. 

“I’ll pay you,” she tells him, _”After_ you help us solve the case. I’ll see you tomorrow with the information.”

“See you tomorrow!”

As Juliet and Lassiter leave, her partner sighs heavily. “I don’t know about this, O’Hara,” he says.

“Just give it a chance, Carlton,” she retorts. “You know I’m a pretty good judge of character. Trust me on this?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he answers.

“I know. We’ll just see how it goes, yeah?” He laughs a little. “What’s so funny?”

“O’Hara,” he says, “You are the most optimistic cop- no, the most optimistic _person_ I’ve ever met.

“Someone has to be.”

“Damn straight.”


	2. Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Psych Investigators and our favorite SBPD detectives are each convinced the other is planning to sell them out. Well, Lassiter and Gus are convinced. Shawn and Juliet are a little more willing to try it out. Here goes nothing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been experimenting with some 20s slang just to make this fit the time period a bit more, so here are some definitions, in order of appearance:
> 
> Sheba: an attractive woman  
> Icy Mitt: rejection  
> Skee: Alcohol, liquor  
> Ossified: Drunk  
> Bluenose: Killjoy  
> Cake-eater: Ladies Man  
> Panther Piss: Alcohol, liquor

“I’m telling you, Mom,” Shawn says as he grabs plates out of the cabinet for Maddie to serve dinner on. “This sheba is prettier than any of the dancers from here to LA. She’s got these golden blonde curls and blood red lips and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.”

Maddie laughs at her son’s over enthusiasm. “I think you said the same thing about a different girl last week.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom, she was a brunette. And besides, after the first date it turned out that her dad was pretty high up in a gang Gus and I were looking into, so that kind of cut the relationship short.”

“When did you meet this girl again? What did you say her name was?”

“Juliet. And I met her-” Shawn checks his watch. “An hour and a half ago.”

“Are you seriously still going on about Detective O’Hara?” Gus demands incredulously, entering the apartment with three large cans of pineapple. He hands one to Maddie and puts the other two in a cabinet. “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Spencer, my folks’ train was delayed and it took longer to see them off than I thought it would.”

“That’s absolutely alright, Gus,” Shawn’s mom says with a smile. “Shawn, you didn’t tell me Juliet was a detective. I thought you said she was a client?”

“Yes to both,” Shawn admits reluctantly. He really doesn’t like sharing details of his job with his mom; just because Shawn’s accepted that he has to deal with many unsavory characters doesn’t mean he wants his mother to know any more than she has to. Aside from possibly endangering her, he knows she’s been through a lot and he hates worrying her. “So Joy did end up getting a job at that firm in Maine?” He asks, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah, we think it’s going to be really great for her. Of course we’ll miss her, all the way across the country, but she’ll visit on holidays and send telegrams.”

Shawn leans forward, trying to appear captivated, but Maddie won’t be distracted for long. “Shawn, I thought you said you didn’t like working with the cops.”

“I guess that changes once the cops are pretty women,” Gus remarks snidely. “Though I have to say, she was impressively able to resist the ‘Spencer charm’ as you call it, Shawn.”

“I said that _once,_ buddy.”

“Admit it, Shawn: the only reason you’re still fixating on her is ‘cause she gave you the icy mitt.”

“Boys, please tell me you’re not taking a potentially dangerous case just because it was offered to you by a pretty dame,” Maddie reprimands, giving the pair a skeptical look as she places her hands on her hips.

“Of course not, Mom,” Shawn assures. “We’re taking it because they’re paying us, and, if they can be believed, they’re two of the few remaining ‘Good Cops’ in the SBPD. I guess we’ll learn more about that as we go along.”

Maddie sighs and shakes her head, but the timer goes off, signaling that the stew is ready. They finish setting the table and enjoy the meal together, laughing and cheered by each other’s company. It hadn’t used to be like this, but it is now, and Shawn is glad for it.

//////////////////

Despite his best efforts to escape the obligation, Lassiter is standing next to his partner at 12 o’clock sharp the next day, just outside the office of Psych Investigators. He and O’Hara both wear trench coats, thought it’s not exactly cold out- the added layer keeps the sandy grime of the streets from soiling their suits. She knocks, and Lassiter is almost surprised when Spencer opens the door. “Good morning, Mr. Spencer,” O’Hara greets.

“And to you, Detective O’Hara, though I believe it is technically afternoon,” he responds smoothly.

“True,” she concedes, stepping into the office. “I’ve got a case for you to help out with.” Lassiter follows her in, noticing the boxes and empty shelves that were hidden by the shadows the previous night.

“Oooh, bootleggers,” Spencer says, faux-interested. He passes the file to Guster. “Third dock at the wharf, four-thirty PM. Not today, though, you’re gonna have to wait until… Tuesday to catch them. Am I right, Gus?”

“Uh…” Gus says, taking longer than his friend had to leaf through the folder. “Um… yeah. That sounds right. Although… maybe 1am tonight? Just a thought. If they’re prepping for the weekend, they might be out late for a risky pick-up. They’d also likely be inebriated and therefore easier to catch.”

“Good thought, Gus, that didn’t occur to me,” Spencer says, nodding as he makes an odd, squinting expression. “There you have it, detectives! Would you like us to reel in the fish as well, now that we’ve hooked it for you?”

“Yeah, right,” Lassiter scoffs. “You came up with a random idea in two minutes. I tell you what, we’ll all go down to dock three tonight, and once we’ve proven you wrong, we’ll go back to real police work and you two can… do whatever the hell it is you do to get paid.”

“Carlton,” O’Hara says, in her ‘be reasonable’ tone of voice. “They might be onto something. Four-thirty on a Tuesday evening would make for a highly irregular schedule, which could account for why we haven’t managed to catch them in the _three weeks_ we’ve been trying. And if they do need more skee tonight while they’re ossified, it increases the likelihood that they mess up and we bring them in.”

Lassiter clenches his jaw, but he knows she’s right. He has no earthly idea how Spencer had reached that conclusion as fast as he had, but it did make sense. _plus,_ he thinks, _it’s not like he just immediately had a solution. He proposed one idea, and Guster helped him elaborate on it._ Lassiter may not be able to wrap his head around psychic abilities- which Spencer had admitted were nonexistent, anyway -but he does understand the value of a solid partnership. Of course, there was still the option that the Private Eyes had an informant and were stringing them along into a trap. “Alright,” he says finally. “We’ll give this a try. Ten pm tonight, out of sight, by dock three. If you’re not there by ten-fifteen, you don’t get paid.”

//////////////

At ten till nine, Gus and Shawn are approaching the wharf. “I don’t know about this, Shawn,” Gus says doubtfully. “What if they’re in on it, and they’re setting us up for an ambush?”

“Don’t worry, Gus, I have a plan.”

“Do you actually have a plan or are you just saying that to get me to leave you alone?”

“Gus, don’t be a bluenose. Of course there’s a plan.”

“You’re not telling me. That means I won’t like it.”

“Of course you won’t, you hate all of my plans.”

What’s the plan, Shawn?”

“If we get ambushed, we run in a zig-zag pattern until they stop chasing us. Sound good to you?”

It really doesn’t, but before Gus can voice his objections, they’ve reached the dock, where two familiar faces are waiting. “Detectives!” Gus says, trying to sound casual. “You’re early.”

“We figured we should get here ahead of you so you couldn’t jump us and throw us in the harbor,” says Lassiter, with a completely straight face.

_”Carlton,”_ O’Hara sighs.

“Don’t be silly, Lassie. We wouldn’t throw you in the harbor; it’s too easy to get out of.”

_”Shawn,”_ Gus says, resisting the urge to rub his temples in frustration.

“Alright, everyone. Perhaps we should get started with the actual stakeout?” Juliet suggests.

The next few minutes are a mess of squeezing into tight spots behind some shipping crates while Shawn makes jokes about Lassiter touching him places he shouldn’t and Gus tries not to do the same to Juliet. Eventually, they all assume semi-comfortable positions where they can watch the dock. And then they wait.

The clock strikes ten. _I hope we can get out of here if we need to chase someone,_ Gus thinks.

///////////////

Eleven tolls ring from the clock tower. Juliet stares intently at the water. It’s a beautiful sight, with the moon reflecting off the slowly rolling waves. Behind the delivery crates, she stays very, very still.

//////////////

The clock strikes midnight. Lassiter shifts, trying to unbend his legs. His partner has not moved in a solid two hours. _How?_ Slowly, trying not to make a sound, he leans his head back against the container behind him. Or at least, he tries to. Guster’s shoulder is in the way. The detective resists the urge to groan. He’s done a few average stakeouts recently, but he hasn’t been crammed like this since the trenches. _One more hour,_ he thinks. _Sixty more minutes, and then we go home._

////////////

Shawn should be watching the dock, but he doesn’t need to. Gus is and Lassie is and Juliet is, as well. Out of all of them, Juliet has succeeded the most at remaining still. She’s cross legged and leaning forward intently, chin resting on her folded hands. A swath of moonlight bathes just a sliver of her face and neck. Her chest rises and falls with breath, but that’s the only motion visible. She’s also blinking occasionally, as Shawn notices when he remembers to redirect his gaze higher. His mom would chide him for crudeness and bad manners, if she was here. It’s probably a very good thing she isn’t.

Shawn glances at his watch, which he can just barely read. It’s almost one. Something’s going to happen soon. Turning, he catches Gus’ eye, or tries to- his friend is dozing off on top of Lassiter. Late-night stakeouts have never been his forte. As Shawn surveys the shadows of the wharf, he notices movement. A few more seconds of watching confirm that it’s people and not a stray animal or something. He counts the shadows, then leans slightly toward Juliet. “Eight people, your ten o’clock, moving this way,” he murmurs. She gives a barely perceptible nod, then turns ever-so-slightly to relay the information to Lassiter. The older detective moves to unholster his gun, but she stills him with a hand on his arm. Shawn can’t hear what she says, but he doesn’t draw his weapon. “Don’t wake Gus,” Shawn adds. “He’ll freak out and tip them off.”

“Lassiter can’t move with Guster on top of him!” Juliet hisses. Shawn’s gaze darts around again; the men are approaching the anchored tugboat, which is likely full of contraband.

“Okay. I’ve got a plan,” he whispers. Juliet gives him a skeptical look. He winks and blows her a kiss before squeezing out the small opening between boxes on his end. “Hey fellas!” He calls brightly.

“Whadda you want, cake-eater?” Slurs a stout man with a crowbar.

“Oh, just wondering if I could get some of that skee you got there,” Shawn replies. He sticks his hands in his pockets, relaxes his shoulders, and leans back on his heels. Casual.

“We ain’t got any kind o’ panther piss,” growls the other man, becoming progressively angrier. Shawn simply gestures to a scrawny younger man, who is holding several bottles of what is clearly liquor and looking like a deer in headlights. “Damnit, Stirling!” Yells the first man. They’re both distracted for the moment, but there are six other men who look none too happy that their operation’s been exposed. One comes around Shawn’s left, and the PI pivots suddenly, clocking him in the eye. Stirling drops the alcohol and runs, but burly-surly man charges Shawn and suddenly he’s facing two opponents who are not quite as drunk as he’d hoped. He tries unsuccessfully to defend against the attack and is rewarded with a head in his gut and a crowbar to the shin. Before he can do so much as take a breath, a foot slams into his ribs. Shawn gasps in pain, but then two forms appear, Juliet decking the first man and Lassiter roughly throwing the guy Shawn had punched into a wooden crate. Gus arrives, looking panicky, and grabs the discarded crowbar. Now it’s four against five, and Shawn and his friends are backed against their previous hiding place. One man who looks to be the leader pulls a gun. Lassiter does the same, but before either can shoot, Juliet executes an impressive kick and her opponent’s firearm goes flying. Just like that, they’re fighting again.

Shawn pulls one man off of Gus as Lassie pistol-whips a man headed for his partner. Thankfully, this guy _is_ drunk, and a knee to the family jewels leaves him incapacitated on the ground. Two more come at them and Gus knocks one out cold with the crowbar, while Lassiter wrestles another into a kneeling position and cuffs his hands behind his back. Juliet is doing the same to the leader. A quick head count tells Shawn that Stirling is the only escapee and the rest of the bootleggers are either unconscious or in cuffs. He grins. “Looks like we make a good team, detectives!”

“You were right about this one, Spencer,” agrees Lassiter.

“No, actually, this was all Gus,” Shawn corrects him, throwing an arm over his best friend’s shoulders. Gus winces.“Oh, sorry buddy, did you get a little roughed up back there?”

“Only a little,” he responds through gritted teeth.

“We’ll put some heat on it. Oh, and Detective O’Hara,” he says as she finishes dragging another unconscious man onto the pile, “Nice right hook! Where’d you learn to punch like that?”

He regrets the question almost instantly as her eyes glaze over and she gets the same look that his mother gets whenever anyone mentions his dad. “My brother,” she answers quietly.

“Oh, neat,” Shawn replies wincing at his awkwardness. “Hey, I’m pretty sure there’s a good coffee house open all night. We could all go get something to drink, warm up a little,” he suggests.

Lassiter gives him an unimpressed scowl. “Sure, we’ll just dump these guys in the harbor and go celebrate,” he drawls sarcastically.

“I think we’d all rather get some sleep,” adds Juliet.

“Alright, that’s fair,” concedes Shawn. “Do you want help with the, uh… clean up?” Gus elbows him in the side, clearly disgusted by the mountain of flesh.

“We’ve got it from here,” grunts Lassiter. Shawn feels Gus sigh in relief.

“We’ll pay you tomorrow,” Juliet promises.

“Until tomorrow, then!” Shawn exclaims with a flourish of his arm. “Farewell and goodnight!”

Juliet’s quiet laughter puts a smile on his face as he and Gus head down the street. The psychic is confident that Psych Investigators isn’t done with the SBPD yet.


	3. Strange Situations, I Get Anxious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn and Gus' trial period is over, and just in time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten positive feedback on my use of 20s slang, so have some more:  
>  **Know your onions:** Know what you're doing  
>  **Necking around:** Making Out  
>  **Bank's closed:** essentially, "no way in hell am I making out with you"  
>  **Pill:** Annoying person, idiot

After the stakeout, the weeks pass by in a blur. In late February, Shawn helps Juliet track down Stirling, the bootlegger who had fled the scene at the docks. At the beginning of March, Gus finds a case involving a young girl stolen from her parents, whom they enlist Lassiter’s help to find. Halfway through the month, the four of them intercept another bootlegging operation coming down the coast from LA. The cases come in and the detectives, private or otherwise, solve them and then, in no time at all, Shawn and Gus’ ‘trial period’ is up. Shawn is on the phone with Juliet when this comes up.

“Hey, Shawn,” she greets. “Listen, we could use your help with a case.”

“Of course, Juliet,” he responds automatically. “What’s up?”

“Well, first, I should warn you- this one is more risky than what we’ve gotten you involved in before. It’s going to be more involved and possibly more dangerous.”

“Alright,” Shawn replies, turning from side to side in his desk chair as he thinks. Gus glares; Shawn’s constant motion distracts him when he’s trying to focus. “What is it? I mean, we’re technically-” a glance at his calendar- “four days past our ‘trial period’. You can explain the case to me and then I’ll check with Gus to make sure he’s okay with it.”

“That makes sense,” Juliet agrees. “Alright, here goes… you may want to write some of this down.”

Shawn grabs a pen and finds a mostly blank sheet of paper. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Two cops, officers William and James Stone. They’re two of three brothers, and the third is a lesser-known con artist in LA. Apparently, Charles, brother number three, is getting impatient with how hard it is to gain a reputation in the City of Angels- Fallen Angels, if you ask me- and he’s teaming up with Will and James to start something here in Santa Barbara. Now, I don’t have to tell you that _more_ organized crime is the last thing this city needs. Also, if we nab Charles, we take down Will and James as well. It’s a high-payoff operation, but that means it’s high risk as well.”

Shawn nods before remembering that she can’t see him, and then makes a noise of acknowledgement into the receiver. He runs his fingers over the papers in front of him as he thinks. Apparently he’s silent for a while, because Juliet’s voice comes over the speaker again. “Shawn? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m just thinking… but I’m getting ahead of myself. Hey, here’s an idea- you and Lassie should stop by for lunch. We’ll get some sandwiches from the place down the street from here and we can discuss this thing in more detail then we’ll really know our onions.”

“We can do that,” Juliet agrees. He hears her say something to someone on the other end, her voice just slightly higher like it is when she’s trying to seem unassuming and casual. She’s a horrible liar but the fact remains that it works because the people she uses it on so rarely care. “Okay, I have to wrap a few things up here. We’ll be at your office for lunch.”

“See you then.”

//////////////////

Gus has his doubts about this case, but by now he agrees with Shawn that Lassiter and Juliet are trustworthy. Also, he’d like to think that he’s a good man, and good men don’t let mobsters take over the city just because they’re scared. Besides, he and Shawn won’t even see much action, if their previous cases are anything to go on. They’ll just find some people, and dig up some dirt on them, and then Lassiter and Juliet will arrest them and it will all be taken care of. This is what Gus tells himself as he chews slowly on his egg salad sandwich and listens to Lassiter and Shawn debate the benefits of sneaking (breaking) into the Stone family house and trying to obtain information about the brothers from there.

Shawn insists it’s a foolproof plan. Lassiter insists he’s gone insane. Gus sighs. “Shawn,” he suggests, “Maybe before we start smashing windows we should look through the Santa Barbara Archives. If the family is from here, there’s a good chance we’d find plenty of information without committing any misdemeanors.”

“I knew there was a reason I chose you as a partner, Gus,” Shawn responds.

“It’s because any other person would’ve told you that you had no qualifications as a private investigator and that your whole idea was insane,” he retorts. Shawn concedes this with a tilt of his head.

“Alright,” interjects Lassiter, “If you two are finding details on the family, we can probably get at criminal records and financial assets, things that you need a warrant for. We’ll each follow a different path and see if we get to the same place.”

“One problem, Carlton,” Juliet says. “No way in hell Mason signs off on any warrants for this case. He really likes the Stone brothers, and this business will encourage that. I mean, he’s been grooming James to take my spot for months.”

“Joke’s on him, then,” Lassiter replies. “C’mon, O’Hara, we’ve got evidence to find.”

Juliet hurriedly finishes her BLT, then says a quick goodbye to Shawn and Gus as she follows her partner out the door.

////////////////

Shawn flips through a newspaper from 1914, hoping to find a clue amongst the inky reminders of the so-called ‘great’ war that had torn apart his family. He’s getting tired of this and he’s only in October; to his frustration, he can’t push aside the hurt growing in his chest, no matter how hard he tries. Finally, halfway through the classifieds, the name **Stone** jumps off the page at him. “Ha,” he huffs, scanning the advertisement- it’s a ‘missing persons’ notice. “Oooh, Gus, c’mere,” he calls. 

“What?” Gus responds, walking over with a paper from February 1915 in his hands.

“Look at this,” Shawn instructs, beginning to read aloud from the ad. “Missing: Charles, James, and William Stone. The Stone brothers weren't present at the mandatory draft on Mon. and are believed to have fled SB. Reward $100 per brother.” Excitement rushes over him, like electricity through his bones and the psychic feels a renewed rush of energy. “If they fled before the war they might have hid in LA! They get there and they’re already on the wrong side of the law, they need some money, one thing leads to another and bam, we’ve got an up-and-coming gangster on our hands.” He grins. 

“But only one of them is a gangster, and we have no proof they went to LA to avoid the draft,” argues Gus. “Maybe we should look at more than one ad before we jump to conclusions?” 

“Perhaps a lesser Private Eye might do so,” Shawn responds, “But you and I, Gus, are psychics, if you hadn’t forgotten.”

“No we’re not, Shawn!”

“But people say we are, Gus, and why do they say that?”

“...Because we’re good at following almost nonexistent leads,” his friend admits grudgingly. Shawn beams and thumps him on the shoulder.

“That’s right! What are we waiting for?” Shawn haphazardly shoves the newspaper back into its folder and takes off down the hall at a jog, oblivious to Gus’ resigned sigh from behind him.

//////////////////

Juliet paces through the dark rows of file cabinets, flashlight held in front of her as she goes. It’s a tricky balance between reading the labels on the drawers and lighting the path in front of her, so the detective stubs her toe a few times and almost trips on a chink in the concrete floor, but she eventually makes it to the **S** section. Of course, the SBPD files are far from comprehensive, but there is some family information. Sure enough, Charles is mentioned, and there’s an address listed for William and James. She frowns at the dates- it looks like the Stone brothers have been in the department since the war, but if they met that age requirement, they should have been drafted. Something’s off there.

Pushing the cabinet closed, Juliet tucks the file under her arm and prepares to leave the records room. She makes it no further than the beginning of the row before a shadowy presence steps suddenly in front of her. She steps back and raises the flashlight like a baseball bat, remembering a second too late that she has a pistol holstered at her hip. She fumbles, trying to decide between lowering her guard to draw the stronger weapon or just forging ahead with what she’s got, and manages to drop both the gun and flashlight on the floor. The flashlight shatters and the gun clatters to the ground, out of reach.

“Wow, my confidence in our chances of solving this case have just skyrocketed,” comes a familiar voice from in front of her. “I really am working with Santa Barbara’s Finest.”

“Shawn?” she asks. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here!”

“I found something suspicious about the Stone brothers,” Shawn replies. “More suspicious than what we already knew, I mean. I’d show it to you, but it’s a little dark,” he deadpans.

Juliet folds her arms over her chest and gives him a look, but of course, he can’t see that. “How did you get down here?” She whisper-yells.

“Why are we whispering? Worried about what’ll happen if someone finds us down here?”

“ _Yes,_ ” she replies, “And you should be too.”

“We can just say we were necking around,” he teases. For the first time, she’s glad there’s no light; this way, he can’t see her blush.

“Bank’s closed,” she retorts. “Seriously, how did you get in here? You absolutely didn’t make it past dozens of officers to come through the station, and there’s no way you snuck through the back of the room without a-”

“Flashlight?” He asks, flicking his on and shining it on his own grinning face.

She gapes for a second, then strides past him, whacking him with the file as she goes. “You _pill_.”

“Aw, c’mon, Juliet-”

“I’ve got police work to do!” she calls, not turning around.

“Juliet, I’m sorry about the flashlight-”

“Oh, the _flashlight?_ You’ve got a lot of nerve, Shawn Spencer!”

“Alright, then, I’m sorry for my… distasteful comments.”

“Find me information on the Stone brothers and I’ll consider accepting your apology.”

“They escaped the draft and hid in LA for the duration of the war!”

She pauses, then turns back to face him, lips pressed in a firm line. “I think you’re half-right.”

“I’ll take it.”

“We can’t have this conversation here, okay? We’ll come by the Psych office between six and seven,” Juliet convinces him.

“That works,” Shawn says, nodding. “Gus and I will flesh out our theory and you and Lassie can gather your ‘hard evidence’.” He puts air quotes around the words.

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” responds Juliet, frowning. “But we’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Until then, Detective O’Hara!” Shawn calls, tipping his hat as he vanishes once again into the metal aisles.

“Until then, Mister Spencer,” she murmurs to the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna have more stuff happen in this chapter, and then I looked and I was at 1800 words and nowhere near where I'd intended to end, so the Stone case will keep going into the next chapter or two. I enjoy feedback!


	4. Smile a Bit or the Opposite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lassie Gets Pissed for a Variety of Reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a good mood tonight and it's making me happyyyyy  
> Slang definitions:  
>  **Bearcat:** A hot-blooded or firey girl  
>  **Sap:** Fool or idiot  
>  **Big cheese:** Important person

It’s the same dream as always. First he’s fifteen and hugging his father goodbye, then sixteen and writing the words _I love you_ at the bottom of a letter but then he’s seventeen and the letter changes and it’s not his handwriting or even his dad’s, it’s the emotionless ink of a telegraph that for some reason has the words _Henry Spencer_ and _Killed In Action_ in the same sentence. No, they didn’t even write it out. They only used three letters, three letters that tore his heart out of his chest, just tiny inked symbols that nearly destroyed his mother. A father, a husband, a good man, and all he amounted to was one lousy telegraph.

As Shawn wakes with a gasp, tangled in his bedsheets and the shadows of the night, he can still see the abbreviation in his mind’s eye. _I don’t need the dream to remind me of that,_ he thinks, rolling over with a huff as he jams his face into the pillow. It’s been years, and he still has that nightmare several times a month. At least tonight he’d woken before he started talking in his sleep; the worst times were when his mother came into comfort him and he had to watch her face fall when she inevitably convinced him to tell her what was wrong. _Great job, Shawn,_ he thinks to himself. _Not only are you miserable from the dream, you have now made yourself feel even worse. Great job._ Looking from his clock (eleven minutes until four) to his window, which is only half covered by the curtain, the psychic realizes his chances of making it back to sleep are very slim, especially seeing as the dock workers will soon be shuffling by down the hallways and outside on the streets. Instead, Shawn throws his blankets off, grabs an old and worn jacket, and slips out the window onto the roof. 

At least this way he’ll get to see the sunrise.

//////////////////////

Lassiter takes a sip of coffee, then goes back to the file in his hands, his brain too distracted at first to notice that something seems off. A second later, it clicks and he lowers the folder again, frowning.

“O’Hara, how do you expect to work this case without garnering unwanted attention if you’ve got pages and pages of sensitive information spread across your desk for everyone to see?” He questions.

She wrinkles her nose. “It helps me think, alright?”

“Can’t you think in a _slightly_ more discreet way?”

“Nobody’s paying me any attention anyway!”

From a few desks over, a young officer who’s name Lassiter has never bothered to learn calls out, “Doll, you’d get plenty of attention if you weren’t such a bearcat.”

Lassiter scowls at him and O’Hara glares daggers. “Excuse me, Officer Ratcliffe, I am a detective, and you will address me as such,” she informs him in an icy tone. Ratcliffe makes a noise of skepticism and turns back to his newspaper, which is not good enough for Lassiter.

“Hey, fella, you gonna apologize?” He growls.

The full-of-himself bastard has the nerve to smirk. “No,” he says. “What are you going to do about it?”

Lassiter stands, slamming his file down on the desk, which he’s damn near ready to vault over and deck the guy. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it-”

“He’s going to do nothing, because his job is more important to him than some sap who has so little success with women that he’s reduced to flirting with any girl he lays eyes on,” O’Hara interrupts, flicking a warning look toward Lassiter before she returns to glaring at Ratcliffe.

The detective sighs but relents. He’s definitely not going to sit here and listen to anymore of this, though, so he heads to the coffee pot for a refill without another word.

////////////////////////

Shawn sits on the roof of the Guster house, eating pineapple from a can as he and Gus watch a train rattle past on the nearby tracks. “What’s the timeframe on this case?” He wonders aloud. “How long do we have until Charlie Stone rolls into town?”

“Why do you insist on giving people nicknames, Shawn?” asks Gus.

“A multitude of reasons. Detective Lassiter is extremely annoyed by being called Lassie and that amuses me, ‘Charles’ is too dignified for a draft-escaping low life gangster, you were six when we met and there was no way I was ever gonna call you ‘Burton’, the list goes on.” He chews thoughtfully on some pineapple. “D’you think Juliet would slap me if I called her Jules?”

“If I say yes, will that actually stop you from doing it?”

“I might try it out later. Wait a minute, what if we don’t need to solve this before Charlie gets here? What if we need to wait until he gets here and _then_ find him?”

“So we’re done talking about nicknames now? I have to say, I have a hard time taking this seriously when you refer to a dangerous criminal as ‘Charlie’.”

“That’s the point, Gus!” Shawn exclaims with a grin. “Now come on, we’ve finished the pineapple, and I wanna see how hard it is to get access to passenger logs for trains.”

“Why trains?”

“Well, we need to start somewhere, and there was a train right in front of us. It was the first thing I thought of.” With that, Shawn hands the empty pineapple can to his friend and jumps off the roof to land on a strategically placed lawn chair. Gus climbs more carefully after him.

“Are we seriously just going to wait for him to come to us?”

Shawn sighs and turns to face his best friend, bouncing a little with impatience. “Do you have a better idea?” Gus, predictably, responds in the negative. “Then to the Cardinal St Cafe we go.”

“What?” Gus’ brow wrinkles in confusion.

“I’ve got a plan,” Shawn says with a grin. Before Gus can protest that statement, he takes off, jogging across the lawn, leaving him no choice but to follow.

//////////////////////////

The cafe on Cardinal street is just short of crowded, nearly every seat filled as the lunch rush comes in. Juliet is in a good mood, watching the passerby through the window as she sips her soup and tries to tune out Carlton’s frustrated mutterings. He’s been on edge ever since Shawn and Gus’ revelation that the Stone brothers had fled the draft, which makes sense. It hadn’t taken her long after meeting Carlton Lassiter to discover that he was a man who had strict opinions on right and wrong and expected rules and laws to be followed. Anyone who does otherwise is almost immediately on his bad side; Juliet suspects this is part of why he dislikes Shawn Spencer.

Almost as if she’d summoned him with a thought, she spots the not-psychic in question weaving his way through the customers, Gus on his heels. “Good afternoon, Detectives!” he greets brightly. “Gus and I have a plan.”

“It’s your plan, Shawn,” Gus argues, looking put out. “It’s your plan, and it’s not a very good one.”

“As we were saying-”

“As _you_ were saying.”

“Fine, Gus, be that way. As _I_ was saying, We think that rather than making a lot of noise trying to track down Mr. Stone before he gets to Santa Barbara, we should just wait. If we can find out when and how he’s getting here, we can intercept,” explains Shawn.

“For someone who doesn’t want to make a lot of noise,” Lassiter responds flatly, “You seem fine talking about sensitive information at a loud volume.”

Gus elbows Shawn in the side. Shawn’s face turns to a reasonable facsimile of remorse. “Oops,” he says.

“Ignore Carlton,” Juliet encourages. “He’s just in a bad mood. This case is making him angry.”

“Oh, I’m angry?” her partner retorts. She winces at his tone. “Why would I be angry? Perhaps because we’re chasing down a bunch of traitorous war criminals? Or could it be the fact that I have to spend too many of my waking hours with lowlifes who think they’re the next big cheese? Noooo, it couldn’t have anything to do with the fact the the city I’ve sworn to protect is overrun with criminals and gangsters now, _could it!?_ ” he growls. Juliet can see a vein pulsing in his temple and though his hands are beneath the table, she’s fairly certain he’s got a death grip on his gun. She chews her lip nervously, partly afraid that some other lunchgoer has overheard his rant and partly nervous that he’s going to punch, shoot, or otherwise harm someone. She looks quickly to Shawn.

“You know what, that’s a superb idea, you two should go track down some passenger logs,” she says, her voice rising almost an octave despite her attempts to stay casual.

“Well, that’s what we wanted your help with,” Shawn starts.

“You’re a fairly decent PI, I’m sure you’ll come up with _something,_ ” she mutters through gritted teeth. Thankfully, Gus gets her hint and drags Shawn away. Juliet turns back to her partner, thinking about how best to diffuse the situation.

“Carlton,” she says finally, “We’ve still got some time left on our lunch break. Do you want to walk the boardwalk?”

“No,” he replies stubbornly.

“Too bad,” she says as she stands, holding out a hand. “I’ll pull you out of that chair if I have to.”

//////////////////////////

Gus sighs as he follows his smooth-talking best friend into the umpteenth archival center this week. The file room of the hour is the route information at the closest train station, which is ridiculously small for the amount of information it holds. 

“Gus,” Shawn mutters, “Can you look through the passenger logs? Just see if you find anything while I find the routes we need. I’d like to be in and out as soon as possible,” he says.

“Shawn, I don’t think we’re supposed to take any of these out of this room,” Gus replies. He’s still confused as to how they got into the room.

“That’s why I want to be fast,” Shawn explains.

“Shawn! This is stealing!” hisses Gus.

“Not if we give it back,” argues Shawn, pulling another drawer open. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this, and normally I wouldn’t ask you too, but it’s not just us now. I may be able to memorize most of the information in here but I’ve just got a feeling we’ll benefit even more if we show this to Jules and Lassie, okay?” he appeals.

Gus sighs. “I’m gonna regret this, but alright,” he relents.

They’re silent for a few minutes.

“So you’re really calling Detective O’Hara ‘Jules’ now?”

“Not to her face.”

////////////////////////

Shawn blinks blearily awake, confused by his unfamiliar surroundings. It takes him a minute to register that he’s still in the Psych office, which is lit only by the soft golden glow of his and Gus’ desk lamps. He’s lying on the floor, the train route papers scattered around him. With a quiet groan, the psychic tries to get up only to be thwarted by his best friend’s feet in his stomach. He moves them off, laughing a little as he sits up and takes in the scene. Lassiter is slumped over a wooden crate he’d been using as a desk, and Gus has inexplicably decided that the detective’s legs are his new favorite pillow. Of course, because they’re all gentlemen, they’d let Juliet take the couch. She, too, is surrounded by files as she sleeps. Shawn watches her for a bit noticing that she shivers slightly. He stands, careful not to wake Gus, and retrieves an old wool blanket from his desk. Then he carefully moves toward the couch and drapes it over Juliet’s shoulders. Mission accomplished, he goes to resume his previous position on the floor with Gus, but pauses and takes another look at the blonde detective.

“Goodnight Jules,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	5. I'm on the Rooftop with Curious Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn, Gus, Jules, and Lassie wrap up the Stone case. Maddie is suspicious. Juliet is not great at Dealing with Emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slang Definitions:  
>  **Petting:** Making out  
>  **Spoon:** Have sex  
>  **Didn't know from nothing:** Didn't know what you were doing  
>  **Get in a lather:** get pissed off  
>  **The goods:** The facts  
>  **Old boy:** similar to 'fella', but exclusively male  
>  **lay off:** Cut the shit

What do you mean you _asked_ him?” Lassiter demands incredulously, staring at his partner in disbelief.

Juliet directs a raised eyebrow at him from her perch on the corner of Spencer’s desk. “I brought it up in casual conversation. You know, just something like, ‘hey, I heard your brother is coming into town. When’s he getting in? Are you going to need someone to cover your shift?’ small talk,” she explains.

“And he… told you?” Lassiter continues, baffled.

“Well, I think he thought I was flirting with him, which is unfortunate, but yes,” she confirms.

“Lassie, are you telling me that after almost twenty years of adult life, you really do not know how to make conversation with any fella you meet on the street?” Spencer teases.

“How old do you think I am?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“That was a rhetorical question,” growls the detective. A beat passes. “I’m only thirty.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, then closes. Lassiter’s brow creases in confusion; he’s never seen the psychic hold back from saying something until now. Before he can think further on it, Guster speaks.

“Detective O’Hara,” he asks, “When _is_ Charles getting into town?”

“Sunday at eleven,” she replies. Lassiter sees Spencer and Guster make almost identical faces of discomfort.

“What?” he asks sharply.

“We have church on Sunday at eleven,” Guster tells him.

“Presumably, that’s why the Stones chose that train- they’re trying to fly under the radar. It would be preferable if you could be there, but if not, we’ll just tail them somewhere else and regroup later. I understand that church is a commitment that some people really don’t want to miss,” she says gently. Lassiter cannot decipher the look that passes between Spencer and O’Hara, but it lasts for a long moment before he speaks.

“Nah,” Spencer says easily. “We’ll just go to church at nine instead of eleven. We can slip out afterward and nobody will even notice us leave. Gus knows I’m right,” he insists, kicking Guster under the desk.

“Uh, yeah,” his friend says quickly. “Mrs. Santiago’s baby is being baptized, so there’s gonna be way too much fuss for anyone to be watching us.”

“See, Lassie?” Spencer says, once again addressing Lassiter with that contemptible nickname. “You learn things from small talk!”

/////////////////////////

Maddie Spencer is suspicious, to say the least, when her son proposes that they attend the earlier service at St. Adrian’s. Nine o’clock is just about the earliest Shawn ever gets out of bed, forget having him alert and functioning somewhere. She asks him why he feels like they should go earlier, and he spits out some excuse about their neighbor’s cousin’s baby’s baptism. In short: he’s definitely hiding something, and Maddie would like to know what that is.

The last few days of the week pass by and on Saturday night, she double-checks that they’re still on for the early service.

“Ab-so-lute-ly!” Shawn confirms. “Gus is onboard too, we can go by his house on the way.”

Maddie raises an eyebrow. “You realize that’s about ten minutes out of our way?”

Shawn shrugs awkwardly. “Yeah… not that big of a deal!” He insists, trying to brush it off.

“You realize you’ll have to get up at half-past seven?” She asks skeptically.

“I was thinking closer to a quarter to eight…”

“Well, you’ve clearly got a plan,” Maddie says with a sigh. Shawn’s not going to tell her anything. When he gets stuck on something, all she can really do is make sure he doesn’t do anything overly foolish. “It’s getting late, dear, I think I’ll turn in.”

“Alright, mom,” Shawn replies, flopping into an armchair. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

///////////////////////

Juliet nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears a voice next to her ear. “What’s a girl like you doing all alone out here in the dark?” Whispers Shawn Spencer. She starts to shove him off the roof before realizing who it is, and then considers it anyway for a few more seconds.

“What are you doing here!?” She hisses.

“I could ask you the same question. Oh, wait, I already have.”

“I am here on _official police business,”_ she lies, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Liar,” Shawn says, almost immediately.

“Says you,” the detective retorts.

“Well, you’re by yourself, Lassie is nowhere to be seen, you’re skulking up here on the dark rooftop, and, oh, yeah, you’ve got a tell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she mutters, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“See? You just did it again!”

Juliet scoots away from him as best she can without tumbling four stories to the ground, mumbling under her breath about unfairly observant psychics. _Who did he think he was? Did he seriously believe he could just barge into her life anytime he wanted, just to flirt and smirk? Did he think that his admirable crime-solving skills made up for his cocky attitude and risque comments? She should give him a piece of her mind, once and for all, show him exactly what she’d learned as an SBPD detective, shove him against the wall and tell him that he was a scoundrel and a miscreant and then pull him in and kiss him like she’d wanted to for a while now- oh, damn him!_

Shawn is grinning at her when she snaps back to reality. She shoots him a glare, then decides that if he’s not going to leave her alone, she can at least put him to work. 

“Shawn,” she says under her breath, “Hand me those binoculars.”

“Oooh, are we _spying?”_ He asks excitedly.

“No, I just enjoy spending my free time on roofs that are cold and uncomfortable when I could be at home in my nice, warm, bed. _Yes,_ we’re spying, you sap!”

Instead of giving her the binoculars, Shawn raises them to his own face and leans forward. “Hey, do we know her?”

Juliet wrinkles her brow in confusion; there hadn’t been a woman in the Stone apartment five minutes ago, just James Stone. “Give me those,” she mutters, tugging the binoculars from Shawn’s grasp. Sure enough, James Stone is talking with a woman, and from the way she’s tossing her hair and how he keeps reaching out to touch her, it’s not about business. She watches as James pulls the girl in for a kiss, then lowers the binoculars, trying not to imagine herself and Shawn in the same situation. _Get a grip, O’Hara!_ she scolds herself.

Shawn wordlessly steals back the binoculars. “Ooooooh,” he says. “They’re having fun.”

Even without the binoculars, Juliet can see from the silhouettes in the window that James and the unknown woman are doing more than petting. “Alright, we’re done here,” she grunts, trying to move past Shawn and onto the rusty metal ladder she’d used to get onto the roof.

“I suppose it would be rather uncouth to watch them spoon,” he agrees. Noticing the position she’s gotten herself into, he gives her an amused smirk. “Comfortable?”

It occurs to Juliet that perhaps she should have asked Shawn to move instead of simply trying to shove him aside, but now she’s sitting just about in his lap and there’s not much she can do about it. The glare she gives him is somewhat negated by the blush crawling over her face. It may be dark, but she’s doubtless close enough to Shawn by now for him to see it. “Do you mind?” She mumbles, trying not to look him in the eyes. Conveniently, her gaze settles on his lips.

“Not at all,” laughs the psychic.

She looks back up at him and fixes him with a glare. “You know damn well that’s not what I meant.”

Shawn laughs again but begins to move so she can get off of him. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, detective,” he teases. Juliet is now standing on the fire escape ladder but pressed nearly chest to chest with him. Her breathing is annoyingly unsteady. “Quite a mouth,” Shawn murmurs again. He leans towards her, and Juliet panics. 

“I guess I’ve learned a few things from years in a police station,” she blurts. With that incredibly smooth statement, she leans backwards, kicking off the wall and clinging to the metal ladder as it rattles down its track. _Good going, O’Hara,_ she thinks to herself. _I don’t know what you just did, but you messed something up. Good going._

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

 

Gus is fairly certain that Mrs. Spencer noticed him and Shawn slipping out of the church coffee hour early, even if his best friend insists they’d been in ‘stealth mode’. Regardless, the pair has long since left the church, and by quarter to eleven, they’re strolling casually into the train station. Before they can reach the correct platform, however, Gus feels a strong hand clench vise-like around his arm. He tries to scream but there’s a hand over his mouth, too. Thankfully, he discovers a few seconds later that it’s only Juliet. Lassiter, who had grabbed Shawn, wastes no time in giving them an earful. “If I hadn’t been present when you did the work, I would think you didn’t know from nothing!” He hisses angrily. “If you two crash onto that platform like a bunch of jackasses, Will and James Stone will scatter and Charles will be across the border by the end of the day!”

“Don’t get in a lather, Lassie, of course we weren’t just going to barge in there,” Shawn scoffs.

Gus gives Shawn a look. “That’s exactly what we were going to do.”

“Well, we at least would’ve done it stealthily,” he tries. Lassiter and Juliet give him incredibly similar looks of skepticism. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” whines the psychic. “You haven’t seen Gus in jackal mode. We can be very subtle.”

“Oh, yes, subtle, the first word that comes to mind when I think of you,” Juliet says sarcastically.

“And how often do you do that, detective?”

She gives him a dark look and leans back against the wall, obscuring herself in the shadows. “Do you have the goods or not, Spencer? If you don’t have what we need then we may as well all go home,” grumbles Lassiter impatiently.

“I’ve got exactly what you need, Lassie,” Shawn reassures him, producing the Stone case folder from his jacket. Lassie and Juliet had left it with them at the Psych office for safekeeping, worried that a snooping officer might figure out what they were up to. Both he and Juliet always locked their desks, Lassiter had explained, but one could never be too careful.

The detective takes the file from the psychic and leafs through it. Satisfied that everything is there, he closes it and tucks it under his own jacket. 

“You’re welcome,” Shawn mutters. Lassiter looks ready to give a snappy retort, but Juliet holds up a hand. 

“Look, the train is getting here,” she whispers. For a few tense minutes, they watch as the locomotive pulls up and Charles Stone climbs out of it. When he greets his brothers with an enthusiastic hug, a large handgun is visible in a holster under his coat. “Alright,” Juliet mutters. “They’re definitely packing heat, then. Shawn, Gus, stay here.” Gus is more than happy to do so, and waits patiently as Juliet and Lassiter draw their weapons and approach the Stones. Unfortunately for him, Shawn takes off fewer than two seconds after the detectives. With a sigh, Gus follows him.

“SBPD!” Lassiter and Juliet yell together. Instantly, all three Stone brothers pivot and pull out weapons of their own.

_”Lassiter.”_ William growls in annoyance. “Of _course.”_

“Drop you weapons, Stones,” Lassiter says, his voice low. Gus begins to inch backward, but James Stone grabs him, and, to his horror, presses his gun to the base of Gus’ skull.

“Okay,” says Shawn, stepping forward. “Okay, new plan. How about you let him go, and we… don’t arrest you for attempted murder.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not arresting us for _anything,_ old boy,” snarls James. Gus tries not to shiver in fear.

“Lay off, James,” says Juliet. You know you’re not getting out of this. Let the fella go and it’ll be easier for everyone.”

“If we’re not getting outta here,” says Charles, “Then we got no reason to let him live, now, do we?”

“I can think of one!” Shawn yells. Gus has known him long enough that he can tell this is just stalling, and his stomach sinks. Shawn, however, is more optimistic. “Actually, I can think of two, they’ve both got guns, and I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that you three are pretty close, yeah?”

“...yeah,” says William. Charles elbows him.

“Okay, so, James, you don’t want your brothers to die, do you?”

“My brothers aren’t the ones with guns pointed at them!”

 

Gus watches in disbelief as Shawn turns around and does an overly dramatic headcount as if to make sure Juliet and Lassie are still there. Then he faces the brothers once more. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He takes another step forward, and before Gus knows what’s happening, he’s lying on the ground, breathless but unscathed. Rolling onto his stomach, he realizes the Stone brothers are making a break for it. But Shawn, Juliet, and Lassie are in pursuit, so he’s fairly certain that’s handled.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Juliet smiles in satisfaction as the cell door clangs shut on the three Stones. Sure, it might be tough to keep them imprisoned, but for now, justice has been served, and that’s what matters. She holds up an hand and her partner high-fives her. “Good work, O’Hara,” he says.

“Same to you, Carlton,” she replies cheerfully.

“I guess Spencer and Guster are pretty damn useful to have on our side, huh?”

“Seems like they are,” agrees Juliet. “Think we’ll be working with them again?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he responds. “I guess we’ll just see what comes up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shules. 'Nuff said.


	6. Cut me a Silk-Tied Tourniquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Psych Gang puts into motion a plan to hit one of Santa Barbara's gangs where it hurts. It doesn't go as well as they'd hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shawn and Juliet express somewhat harsh views of the American military in this chapter. They are saying these things in the atmosphere of 1925, with the opinions of two frustrated young people who have lost people they care about to WWI. What they say definitely does not reflect my own opinions. I have nothing but the utmost respect for American troops.   
> Slang definitions:  
>  **Darby:** great  
>  **Cast a Kitten:** have a fit  
>  **Blow:** crazy party  
>  **Don't take any wooden nickels:** Don't do anything stupid  
>  **Breezer:** Convertible car  
>  **Bull:** Cop or any law enforcement officer  
>  **Copacetic:** Excellent  
>  **Drugstore Cowboy:** A well dressed man who hangs around trying to pick up women  
>  **Chopper:** A Thompson sub-machine gun that got it's name from the damage it did to a human body

“Hey, Gus,” Shawn says, “Can you help me out here?”

“I can’t believe you’re twenty-five and you still don’t know how to tie a tie,” his best friend sighs.

“Forgive me if I’m not always spending evenings at upscale places like The Silk Tourniquet,” Shawn grumbles.

“Wow, sounds like you’re going to have fun tonight,” Maddie says as she enters the room. “Shawn, dear, would you like some help?”

“Yes, mom, thank you,” Shawn answers, shooting Gus a hurt look.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Maddie asks.

For a brief moment, Shawn imagines answering that question honestly. _We’re going to the darbiest club in Santa Barbara to intercept a gun trade, take down a gang leader, and hopefully not get ourselves killed in the process. Aren’t you proud of our stellar decision making skills?_ He nearly laughs aloud at the thought. Maddie would cast a kitten if she knew what they were really up to.

“We’re just going out to celebrate, mom,” he mutters, not meeting her eyes. She raises an eyebrow.

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah,” Shawn mumbles. “It’s the Fourth of July.”

“Shawn,” she says, her fingers on his tie stilling, “You have not willingly celebrated Independence Day since you were thirteen.”

“Well, I never said I was celebrating it of my own volition,” Shawn defends. “This was all Gus’ idea.”

Gus glares at him, but maintains the story. “Uh, yeah. I heard there was a real blow going on at The Silk Tourniquet tonight. Thought we’d have some fun.”

Maddie’s eyes narrow. “You can’t even get into the Silk Tourniquet.”

Gus gulps. “Um… not with that attitude, I can’t?”

Maddie sighs as she finishes Shawn’s tie, then steps back and stands with her hands on her hips. “Well. Whatever you’re doing tonight, have fun. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” With one last concerned look at Shawn, she turns and walks out of the room.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Lassiter checks his watch for the seventeenth time since arriving at the Psych office. “Where are they?”

“Carlton, it’s just now eight,” O’Hara reminds him. “You’re the one who wanted to be here twenty minutes early.”

“Why would they tell us to meet them here if they weren’t going to _be here?”_ He demands.

“They’re probably coming here after they get ready. Would you invite them to a rendezvous at your house?”

“Fair point,” admits Lassiter. “They’d better get here soon.”

“The fireworks down the street won’t go off for an hour at least,” Juliet comforts.

There are days when he worries about the fact that his partner knows him almost better than he knows himself. Some might call him paranoid. “This isn’t about the fireworks,” he lies.

“This is absolutely about the fireworks.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not a bad thing, Carlton. I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he says quietly. “I hope to god you never do.” She doesn’t respond to that verbally, but places a hand on his shoulder. He tenses, as he always does at physical contact, but she doesn’t remove her hand. After a few seconds, he relaxes again.

“Lassie, nice breezer!”

 _Why did I want them to show up, again?_ “About damn time, Spencer. Get in the car.”

“Where’d you get it? Can you get a ride like this on a bull’s salary?”

“Enough with the questions. You and Guster can squeeze in the back,” Lassiter instructs. Spencer goes to enter the car, then freezes. “Woah, Jules. You look- you look copacetic.”

Lassiter groans in irritation even as O’Hara blushes and smiles. “Thank you, Shawn. I must say, you pull off the drugstore cowboy look well.”

Spencer gives her a roguish grin. “Why, thank you, m’lady.” Climbing into the car, he reaches for her hand and presses a kiss to it, just as he had the first day they’d met. Tonight, however, O’Hara has plenty of time to withdraw her hand, and Lassiter can’t help but notice that she chooses not to. Grumbling to himself, he starts the car, and they motor off down the streets of Santa Barbara.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Juliet stares out over the nightscape of Santa Barbara, waiting patiently for the hour at which the gun trade will go down. She’s already socialized a bit; made some small talk and turned down a large number of illegal beverages, but after a spin across the dance floor with Shawn, she’d escaped to the balcony to clear her head. She can’t afford to be distracted when it’s time to get down to business. Of course, Shawn himself has other ideas.

“Oh, look,” he murmurs, joining her at the railing. “Fireworks.”

“You don’t sound very excited,” Juliet observes.

Shawn makes a noncommittal noise. “Call me unpatriotic, but the Fourth of July isn’t really my thing.”

Juliet nods, agreeing in spite of herself. “Why should we celebrate? Why should we take pride in this country when American pride has ruined so many lives?” Ordinarily she wouldn’t dare to make such a bold statement, but sheer relief at someone sharing her opinion has loosened her tongue.

Shawn turns to face her. “What was he like? Your brother?”

Juliet gives a deep sigh. “He was brave, and confident, and stubborn, and caring. When I was little, my other brothers would give me piggybacks when I couldn’t keep up, but Ewan just taught me to run faster.” She shifts her wait, unintentionally leaning closer to Shawn. “And then… so many people told us we were lucky, because their brothers and fathers and boyfriends were gone for good. And I know, I know they’re at least a little bit right, but my brother did not come home from Germany. Ewan O’Hara might be sitting in some padded room in an asylum, but the man I knew is gone,” she says. Over the course of her story, her voice has softened to a whisper.

Shawn cups her face in his hand, a thumb stroking over her cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he murmurs.

Juliet reflexively arches into the touch. “It’s alright. I think I needed to explain that to someone.”

“Well, I’m right here,” he breathes, a hand on her arm pulling her closer. She should resist, but she doesn’t. “I’m right here.”

She lets him lean towards her until there’s maybe a hair’s breadth of space between their lips. “Shawn, we can’t.”

“That’s never stopped me before.”

Juliet places a hand on his chest to push him away, but the heat of his skin, even through his silky dress shirt, makes her gasp. He’s just millimeters away from her lips and forget blushing, being this close to him is practically setting her entire body alight.

The door bangs open, and they jolt away from each other, but not fast enough. “Spencer, what the hell are you doing?” Demands Lassiter.

“Uh-” he stutters. “We were, um-”

“Talking,” Juliet offers. “Just talking.”

Shawn nods. “Very close talking.”

Lassiter clearly believes none of it. His gaze sweeps suspiciously from Shawn’s rumpled shirt to Juliet’s slightly mussed curls. “We don’t have time for this,” he growls. “The buyers are here and I’ve got eyes on the sellers. Problem is, I sent Guster to keep an eye on the buyers and now I’ve lost all of them.”

Shawn startles and his eyes go wide. “When?”

“I last saw them almost ten minutes ago. I had to hide from a few SBPD double crossers, and the next time I checked on ‘em, they were gone.”

“Shit,” swears Shawn. He winces and turns to Juliet. “Sorry.”

 _For the cursing or for making me completely crazy over you?_ “You’re fine.”

“Where were they last?” Shawn asks Lassiter.

“I saw them by the stage door- the buyers were talking to a few entertainers, and Guster was, I believe, attempting to hide behind a piano.”

“Are any of the entertainers involved with the transaction?” Juliet queries.

“It’s possible they’re being paid for their silence,” her partner answers. “They probably won’t pose much of a problem in terms of getting past them, though.”

Juliet looks at Shawn, who by now is bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Alright, then. To the stage door.”

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Gus is hiding in a broom closet, barely daring to breathe. He’s not in the most comfortable of positions, but any shift and he will knock into the cases of moonshine that surround him. Outside, he can hear the weapons deal going down, or at least, it’s about to. The hushed voices of the dealers argue back and forth until another, louder voice interrupts.

“Oh, hey there, fellas! I think I’ve gotten all turned around. I’m supposed to be on stage in a few minutes, could you point me in the right direction?”

It takes Gus a second to recognize Juliet’s voice; she’s speaking at a higher octave than usual, and he’s not sure he’s ever heard the detective giggle. She chats a bit more with the gangsters, who grow increasingly irritated. One of them says something derogatory about flappers, and the next thing Gus knows, there are several loud crashes and male shouts of pain echoing through the hall. This is followed by the sound of guns cocking and then Shawn yelling, “Gus?”

Gus gingerly pushes open the closet door. “What was that?”

“Stay where you are,” hisses Juliet. He freezes, and as his eyes adjust, he can see the irate gangsters standing just down the hall. A few of them lie on the ground, but the detectives are still outnumbered. Gus gulps, but Juliet appears to have the situation under control.

“Drop your weapons,” she orders. “You have until I count to three.”

 _”Three,”_ snaps one of the gunmen. The loud report from his gun sets off a chain reaction; Gus ducks back into the closet , and both Shawn and Lassiter move to protect Juliet. Lassiter presses her against the wall, shielding her with his body. Shawn, lacking the detectives’ training and finesse, simply puts himself between Juliet and the bullets. Gus can only watch, horrified, as his friend’s white shirt turns red.

“Spencer, you idiot!” Roars Lassiter. “They’ve got a case full of choppers! Get down!”

Thankfully, Shawn listens, for once. After a tense few minutes, the shootout is over. Two of the gangsters are dead. One is unconscious. The other three, along with the case of weapons, have escaped.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

By the time Shawn, Gus, Lassiter, and Juliet find an exit to the tunnel system, they’re quite a ragged bunch. Juliet’s bleeding from a knife wound sustained during her first skirmish with the gun traders. Gus is limping on a twisted ankle. Lassiter, bleeding from multiple bullet grazes, is supporting a near-unconscious Shawn. The four of them- plus the unconscious buyer Juliet is dragging- stand under the pier, illuminated only by the shafts of moonlight streaming through the slats above them. “Where to now?” Juliet asks quietly.

Gus sets his jaw, “I know someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder where they're going...
> 
> (Shawn's alive don't worry)


	7. My Tell-Tale Heart's A-Hammer In My Chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gus, having no clue what to do with his severely injured best friend, takes him the only place he knows. Madeline Spencer is not as surprised as one would guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Note on Characterization**
> 
> So, I messed with the timeline of things a bit when I started this, but I don't think I've fully explained it yet. I'm still not going to, because that would take ages and you probably still wouldn't understand what goes on in my brain, but this A/N is specifically to discuss my characterization of Juliet. I'll start by saying: she's 22 (shawn is 25). She doesn't quite know what she's doing yet, but she's trying to do it well. She's headstrong and stubborn and there's nobody giving her orders that she has to listen to- a bit different from the canon SBPD. And although we've established that she's had some experience with tragedy (read the last chapter) she's never seen someone she cares about this close to death, and she's not quite prepared to deal with the eMoTiOnS this causes. So, yeah. Super long note. Enjoy the chapter! (oh, and **bull** is a slang term for a cop, FYI.)

Madeline Spencer has seen a lot. She spent most of The Great War volunteering at local hospitals, which mostly meant talking with the men who had returned home missing limbs and sometimes even the ones whose minds were far less intact than their bodies. And she’s not naive; she knows that the streets of the city she calls home are littered with gangs and bootleggers, all of whom carry weapons that she wouldn’t trust a government officer with. There’s a difference between knowing that and seeing your son, near unconscious on your doorstep, far too close to bleeding out from wounds inflicted by those very weapons.

She opens the door, her face grim. Gus and Shawn are accompanied by two unfamiliar faces who must be the detectives they’ve been working with, but Maddie pays no attention to the bulls, instead helping Gus practically drag Shawn to the couch. “Just out to have a good time. Oh yeah,” she says drily.

“In our defense… actually, there’s nothing I can say that won’t make this even worse,” Gus says.

“Justice,” slurs a barely conscious Shawn, before collapsing into a wheezing fit.

Maddie huffs out a sigh. “Alright, Gus, I need the oldest towels we have in the laundry room. Detectives, one of you can fill a bowl with water; there should be a large metal one under the sink. The other can grab my knapsack from the closet by the door, it’s got some medical supplies in it.” As the three of them rush off, Maddie takes Shawn’s hand in hers and brushes his hair out of his face. He looks up at her, but his eyes are unfocused. “Hold on, Shawn, you’ll be alright,” Maddie murmurs. He doesn’t respond, but his chest is still rising and falling as he takes deep, ragged breaths, and that’s good enough for her.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Lassiter isn’t quite sure how he ends up helping Mrs. Spencer stitch Shawn’s wounds, but somehow, he does. Guster can’t stand the sight of blood, so he waits in the kitchen. O’Hara curls into a ball in an armchair near the couch, her arms around her legs and her knees pulled up to her chin. Her rose pink dress is stained with blood.

Carlton has experience in ad-hoc medical treatment from his time in the trenches, and he soon learns that Mrs. Spencer volunteers at a veteran’s hospital. Between the two of them, they stitch and bandage the bleeding gashes in Spencer’s chest- by some miracle, all but one of the bullets had only grazed him, and they don’t have much trouble removing the one that had lodged in his shoulder. He loses a lot of blood, but his heart keeps beating. By the time they finish, he’s still alive, and that’s all any of them can ask for.

Now all that’s left to do is wait.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Juliet stares out the window, curled around herself in the armchair. She’s seen dead bodies before, hell, she's inflicted injuries nearly as severe as these, but now that it’s Shawn… she feels nothing but cold despair. She might be shivering, or perhaps that’s merely the remnants of adrenaline coursing through her veins. As Carlton and Mrs. Spencer clean up the medical supplies, Gus hands her a warm mug of coffee. She cradles in in her hands and sips, and she feels a little warmer. Soon, all of them are sitting in the living room, eyes trained on Shawn. Juliet finally forces herself to look at him, to take in his bare chest marred by the neat stitching that is still bright red, and his too-pale face with his eyes still closed. She swallows hard.

“What happened?” Mrs. Spencer asks quietly. She sounds so close to broken that Juliet almost winces at her words.

“We unsuccessfully tried to apprehend a few weapon dealers,” Carlton says.

Juliet looks Shawn’s mother in the eyes and speaks for the first time since they’d arrived. “Shawn put himself between the dealers and me when they opened fire. He saved my life.”

Madeline Spencer smiles sadly and nods. They don’t say much after that.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Just past three in the morning, Gus pads quietly back into the living room in case Juliet is asleep. She isn’t. From her seat at the end of the couch not occupied by Shawn’s head, she looks up at him. “I got Maddie to go to bed,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “I told her one of us would be with him at all times. Do you want me to sit up first?”

Juliet shakes her head; he’d kind of seen that coming. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway,” she says softly.

“Alright. You want a blanket or something?”

“That would be nice, I can get it if you tell me where-” Gus shakes his head and pulls an afghan out of the chest by the window. She smiles a bit as she wraps it around her shoulders. “Thanks, Gus. Goodnight.”

“And to you, Juliet.” With that, Gus goes to join Lassiter in Shawn’s room.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

When Shawn wakes up, his head is a fog of confusion, and he is lying shirtless very close to a somewhat blurry form whom he recognizes as Juliet after blinking a few times. Well then. “Jules?” He mumbles, finding it hard to speak.

She jolts, turning quickly to face him. “Shawn!” She exclaims, but her voice is hoarse from lack of use and cracks, so the word ends several octaves higher than it had started. “How do you feel? Should I get someone?”

Shawn furrows his brow; clearly he’s missing something. It’s possibly related to the aching in his chest. “Wha’ happened?”

Juliet bites her lip. “Well, how much do you remember?”

“Me an’ you on the balcony,” he slurs. “Lassie. Something ‘bout Gus?” His eyes widen and he tries to sit up a bit as he remembers. “Shit, is Gus okay?”

“Gus is fine,” Juliet says, leaning over him to press him back into the couch. This makes it so she’s damn near lying on top of him, but she either doesn’t mind or doesn’t notice. “You, on the other hand… you took roughly six bullets to various areas on your chest.” She looks him in the eyes, and his breath catches in his chest at the worry and gratitude and countless other emotions in her blue gaze. “Shawn, you almost died.”

“But I didn’t,” he counters hoarsely. “I’m here now.”

Jules shakes her head and squirms even closer to him; from the frustrated expression on her face, there’s some part of this he’s not getting. “Shawn, _why_ did you do that? Why did you jump in front of half a dozen gangsters with weapons that can _destroy_ a person?”

Shawn shifts on the couch. He’s trapped, both physically and metaphorically; he couldn’t get up on his own right now if he tried, and there’s really only one answer to the question she’s asked, no matter how little he wants to say it. Although really, it’s not so much the _saying_ that bothers him as it is the _explaining._ “I did it to keep you safe,” he murmurs. “I… I don’t really know why. But when it happened, when they opened fire… all I could think about was making sure you didn’t get hurt.”

“Shawn, you’ve known me for barely six months,” she says, and she sounds close to tears which he absolutely hates, he thinks seeing her cry might hurt worse than the bullets. “Barely six months, and you’d risk your life for me? That’s- that’s ridiculous.”

“You’re worth it,” says Shawn, and even though it might be easier to lighten the mood with a joke, he doesn’t, because he needs her to understand this. “You are so, so good. You want to help every person you meet. You see the bad things in this world and you do something about them, you make them go away.” He reaches up to cup her face in his hand, to slide his fingers into her messy curls. “Jules. You’re absolutely worth it.”

She’s crying now, tears running down her face and dripping onto his chest, which is exactly what he didn’t want. Without saying anything, she buries her face in his neck. _”Shawn,”_ she says in a choked voice. “Shawn, I- I’m not as strong as you think I am.”

He strokes his hand through her hair. “You are,” he insists. “You’re the strongest person I know, except for maybe my mom. But being strong doesn’t mean you have to be lonely. You don’t have to push everyone away.”

She picks up her head and looks at him through watery blue eyes. When she blinks a few times, tears fall from her lashes onto his face. “I don’t want to push everyone away,” she whispers. “There are some people I’d like to be very close to.”

He pulls her in and presses his lips to hers, as if he can kiss all of the bad things away. Her mouth moves willingly with his and her hands go around his neck like if she holds on tight enough, she can keep them both safe. Perhaps they can, or perhaps they are fools, too young and intoxicated by each other to see sense. It does not matter, at the moment, because Shawn is holding Juliet close to him as he kisses her thoroughly and she is responding by kissing him back, in a way that she has never kissed anyone before (but then, she’s only ever kissed the boys at her high school, and only at the end of dates or outside a dance hall, which is quite different). As they break apart, Shawn Spencer and Juliet O’Hara slowly begin to realize that this might be what it feels like to fall in love.

Tomorrow, the young lovers will have to face the many problems of their world, but tonight, they are content to twine close together and fall asleep in each other’s arms as they are bathed in moonlight. Tonight, just knowing they are both alive is enough.


	8. Conspire Against the Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They spend a week at the Spencer family apartment before Shawn is strong enough to go anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slang definitions  
>  **choice bit of calico:** beautiful woman  
>  **Applesauce:** bull, bullshit  
>  **phonus balonus!:** nonsense  
>  **berries: **great****

Shawn wakes up to a sharp pain in his chest, followed by a string of apologies from Juliet. He notices that his mother has entered the room, which accounts for Jules hastily scrambling off of him, but he’s still busy blinking away the last vestiges of sleep and trying to figure out if the night before had been a dream.

“How do you feel, Goose?”

Shawn sighs as his mother presses a hand to his forehead. “Uh, my chest hurts. I’m thirsty. But other than that, I’m alright.”

Maddie kisses his forehead. “I’ll get you some water.”

Once they’re alone, Shawn turns to Jules. “You’re blushing.”

This makes her blush harder. “You tend to have that effect.”

He reaches for her hand, then kisses her knuckles. “You’re pretty when you blush.”

She smirks. “Only when I blush?”

“Oh, no. You’re the most choice bit of calico I’ve ever met. You’re beautiful.”

“Aw, applesauce.”

“No, seriously, Jules.” He grins at her, but Maddie reenters before she can reply.

“Here you go, Goose,” she says. With a sigh, she sits on the edge of the couch and begins running her fingers through his hair. “Do I ever want to know how this happened?”

“It’s safest if you don’t,” Lassiter says, emerging from the hallway. “In fact, we should get out of here as soon as possible.”

Maddie folds her arms. “Oh, I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“Mrs. Spencer, while I accept full responsibility for our failure to complete our mission, the fact remains that staying here could put you in danger-”

“Phonus balonus! You are not skittering off to hunker down in your office until you find another suicide mission while my son is still full of bullet holes!”

Shawn can tell his mother is irked by this conversation, and she’s not the only one- Jules is the next to speak up. “Carlton, what do you mean you take ‘full responsibility’ for the mission failure? I’m the reason Shawn got hurt in the first place!”

_Well, that’s the exact opposite of what I want._ “Jules, don’t say that. It wasn’t your fault, darling.”

Juliet grimaces, and Shawn realizes his mistake a second too late; Lassie’s already pivoting to hit him with a steely glare. _”Darling?"_

Shawn gives him his best cheeky grin. “Yes, dear?”

“Spencer, you’re damn lucky you’ve already got six bullets in you, because O’Hara is my _partner_ and you will treat her with the respect she deserves-”

“Carlton, leave him alone, we have bigger problems to deal with right now, like where the hell we go when we get out of here-”

“Detectives, until my son is healed, you are not going anywhere!”

“Mom! Juliet! Lassie!” Shawn is breathing hard, both from yelling and from pushing himself into a sitting position. “You’re all right. I’m gonna need more time before I go anywhere. It’s dangerous to stay here- but maybe more dangerous to go, if I’m slowing you down. And Lassie, on a slightly unrelated note, I have the _utmost_ respect for Juliet.”

The four of them stare at each other, each of them quiet as they stubbornly refuse to back down. The tension is broken by a sleepy Gus. “Why is there so much yelling? It’s only seven.”

>>>>>>>>>>>

It takes seven days for Shawn to feel like he could even survive outside his and his mother’s apartment.

The first day is tense. Jules and Lassie feel they should be running. One of them is at the window at all times. Lassie tries to set up a sniper position, but Maddie has long since banned guns from her house.

The second day is resigned. Gus starts a puzzle, and though Lassie is still stuck stubbornly at the window, the other three slowly fit the pieces together. Shawn sleeps a lot, and Maddie is practically his shadow, constantly there with a glass of water or a light sandwich. Gus notices that Juliet looks hesitant and worried, like she wants to help but doesn’t think it’s her place. He wonders idly why it seems like something has changed there.

The third day is relaxed. Juliet convinces Lassiter to sleep. Maddie takes Gus with her to get groceries, assuring Juliet that she trusts her completely to help Shawn. Shawn is delighted to wake from his nap and find that they are essentially alone in the house. He gives her soft, slow, gentle kisses, much different from the heat they’d shared two nights previously. She shivers pleasantly and wraps herself around him, careful of his wounds. When she rests her head on his chest, she notes with relief that his breathing sounds clear and his heartbeat is strong. Unfortunately, listening to that means she misses other sounds around her.

“O’Hara, what in the name of justice is going on here!?”

The fourth day (and indeed, the latter half of the third) is awkward. Shawn is comfortable sitting up, so they play cards. Lassiter positions himself between Spencer and O’Hara, glowering at Spencer if he so much as looks in Juliet’s direction. The situation is not improved by the fact that Spencer keeps beating him at poker.

“If it makes you feel better, Lassie, Shawn always wins,” Guster offers.

Spencer gives a smug chuckle that grates on Lassiter’s fraying nerves. “Gus, I don’t think Lassie’s upset about the poker game.”

With a snarl, the detective tosses down his cards. “Whatever. Somebody needs to be planning for where we go after this.” He stalks off. A minute later, O’Hara follows him.

The fifth day is moody. Lassie and Jules have stopped speaking to each other. The rain pouring down and the mist coming through the not-airtight windows create a humid, chilly environment that makes Shawn miserable. Maddie and Juliet ensure he has blankets and tea to prevent fever, but breathing is more painful than it has been. Gus draws to cheer him up. As the sun is setting- or rather, as the sky is darkening even more and the clock says it’s late evening- he shows him a sketch he’s been working on all day. The lines are rough and it’s clearly been drawn from a moving model, but it’s still beautiful. It depicts Juliet, perched on the edge of the couch, holding one of Shawn’s hands in hers. But the best part of the sketch is their faces- Gus has clearly captured the way they look at each other like neither can believe the other is real. Shawn grins up at his friend. “This is… this is just berries, Gus. Thanks… thanks a million.”

The sixth day is energized. Shawn moves around, walking circles until he can do so without bracing himself on the walls. Lassiter and Juliet, who have reached some sort of truce, procure weapons. Juliet apologizes, but Maddie understands. She’d rather a few trustworthy cops carry guns than have Shawn and Gus chasing criminals unprotected. Gus alternates between preparing a medical kit and keeping Shawn from over exerting himself.

On day seven, Shawn feels ready. He’s able to dress himself, and by the time they’ve finished breakfast, Jules and Lassie are clearly raring to go. Shawn, too, knows they have to leave. He wraps his mother in a hug, and she doesn’t let go of him for a long time. “You’ll come back as soon as you can?”

“As soon as it’s safe, Mom. This should only take a couple days, maybe less.”

“I don’t like it, Goose.”

“I know, Mom, I know. But we’ve already stayed longer than we should… the longer we stay, the harder it gets to find the people we’re looking for.”

She squeezes his hand. “Come back safe, Shawn.”

Shawn kisses her on the cheek. “You got it, Mom. See you in a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! I know what's gonna happen now, so the next chapter should be out... by the end of June???

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments & kudos make me very happy :)


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